


In Defense Of The Little Things

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [4]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: NSFW, Other, PNP, Tactile, possible spoilers for Beast Hunters Rebellion and onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet’ll adjust to Optimus’ new body, sooner or later. In the meantime, he’ll just be enjoying the side effects…</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Defense Of The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** In Defense Of The Little Things  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime [AU-ish]  
>  **Characters:** Ratchet, Optimus Prime  
>  **Pairings:** Ratchet/Optimus  
>  **Warnings:** Smut – tactile/PnP, some gratuitous sizekink  <3 Kem not taking things too seriously, because I think we need a bit of lighthearted fluff in this part of the fandom at the moment.
> 
>  **Notes:** Got a prompt from [primesdontparty](http://primesdontparty.tumblr.com) – squeed, replied to the message, and forgot to save the damn thing. I did note down the important parts, but the fact remains that I don’t have a solid copy of it to show off. However - this is it! *throws sparkles everywhere*
> 
> Also, Kem wrote non-sticky! Aren’t you proud of me? 8D This is a happy day. :D [I realised I was thinking of sizekink as working best with sticky, which is a silly thing to think as that’s so not all it is, and turned it into a challenge. Did I achieve it? I’ll leave the judgement to you guys. :3
> 
> The title doesn’t have much to do with the actual fic, other than perhaps a veiled pun with regards to Ratchet’s currently rather shrimpy comparative size… Kem was in a funny mood, okay?
> 
> >> _Level of Porn_ – Lv.4 (Actual Srs Bizness)

***

Once upon a time, Ratchet had been able to look Orion Pax in the optics without looking up. They’d been of a similar height, and in fact Orion was slimmer and massed considerably less, his proportions geared more towards elegance and dexterity, physical grace and economy of movement rather than the raw strength that drove Ratchet’s own frame.

Then he’d become Optimus Prime. This had taken some adjustment. Where once upon a time Ratchet could have matched his gaze from a more-or-less equal height, he now had to crane his neck back and look up, and up, at a mech who now towered over him by almost a mechanometer.

He consoled himself with the fact that Optimus’ extra height was mostly legs. Shapely, powerful, yet undeniably lanky legs which reacted so wonderfully when he pinned their owner down with his medic’s weight and drew out their shared charge in ever-increasingly wicked and inventive ways. At least he’d gotten a new favourite body part out of the transformation.

But this?

He blinked up at the massive frame crouched above him, the forearm thicker than Optimus’ old frame’s waist resting on the berth by his shoulders, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the light completely. At the idling flight engines whose steady rumble sent heady vibrations through him wherever his plating touched Optimus’, the hand that could and had wrapped with consummate ease around his thigh as Optimus pushed his legs apart and settled between them, frame and field alight with ready heat. Blue optics – the only familiar thing about this frame – gazed intently down at Ratchet, gauging his reaction.

“You haven’t said anything,” Optimus observed, the ozone-bright glow of his field sharpening around him. “Are you comfortable?”

The voice was enough. Ratchet’s ventilation fans clicked on with an audible whirr.

Optimus’ lips twitched—trying to hold back a smirk. Ratchet would have smirked himself at the ease with which he’d pushed his partner’s legendary self-control, but this time he was too busy cursing out his traitorous body. His field pushed back, the outer layers twining into Optimus’ in a way that would have been almost embarrassing had Optimus not immediately reciprocated with a needy twist that had them falling into each other like the long-denied lovers they – _technically_ , as if Ratchet would ever admit to applying such a blatant romance-novel cliché to himself – were.

Optimus’ optics narrowed, the delicate platelets around them drawing tight in something like amusement before he swooped and Ratchet found himself being kissed to within an inch of his life, an assault if there ever was one, and he’d be damned if he was going to give in that easily but _Straxus_ Optimus knew how to kiss. It was wet and profane and involved a lot of glossa and a lot of emotion and he caught the taste of old wounds on it, desperation Optimus hadn’t quite buried deep enough to avoid being found, something to do with last words by a glowing space bridge and the sharp numbness of the surely dying.

Ratchet offlined his optics and tilted his helm back, easing the angle for Optimus. Sight was a distraction – the real treat was in tactile sensation. Looping his arms around his Prime’s neck, he drew his legs up by Optimus’ hips, thighs pressing close against the blue curve.

There were exposed tension cables within his reach, gaps between plates to explore. Someone with (relatively) small fingers and a bit of anatomical knowledge could well put that to use—

Optimus made a sound that could only be described as a purr into his mouth, the vibrations of the accompanying rev rippling through their frames. Ratchet’s neural net glowed with pleasure, autonomics making his backstruts arch, eager to press more of himself up against the behemoth above him. He grazed his dentae over Optimus’ lips, and their kiss turned rough, biting. Static charge flickered between them, the crackle just audible over the rumbling of their engines.

Massive hands ghosted up over Ratchet’s pelvic plating, across his grill to settle low on his side, digits lazily circling the cover of his lateral interface panel. Opening it wasn’t so much a conscious decision as an automatic reaction – his autonomics had learned to associate the touch with Very Good Things.

Optimus broke the kiss and vented a puff of air into the crook of Ratchet’s neck. “I’d very much like to share minds with you, if you’ll have me.”

He always asked, even when he knew what the answer would be. It was one of the reasons Ratchet kept coming back to him, hero-complex be damned.

“I’ll have you alright,” Ratchet said, half a growl and half a moan, groping for Optimus’ own panel. “I’ll have you screaming for me and begging for more before you know it.”

He onlined his optics just in time to catch Optimus’ optics flare at the suggestion. “I look forward to it,” the last Prime said, leaning forward on his forearms and grinding his hips down against Ratchet’s, metal squealing, pressure gauges rocketing. Sparks flew, ozone gathered, and Ratchet’s interface protocols interpreted the data as a rush of hot liquid pleasure. His helm lolled back against the berth and a strangled whimper slipped from his vocaliser, his legs hooking around Optimus’ thighs and locking them together.

A gentle kiss brushed against his lips, a hand cupping against the cables of his neck. Sensor clusters fired at the touch to exposed protoform.

“Wait,” he said, his voice small, and try as he might he couldn’t force it any louder.

Optimus stilled, his optics dimmed and careful. He opened his mouth a fraction, but something in Ratchet’s expression stopped him.

Ratchet watched, meeting and holding Optimus’ gaze. The Prime hovered above him, pressing down on him with pure presence alone. Optimus’ new frame was huge and powerful, a living weapon more worthy of the term than any Ratchet had seen in his long and at times terrifying career. Ratchet, himself considered on the large side for a grounder, felt like a doll in his hands. The differential should have made him feel helpless, should have at the very least unnerved him – and yet, with a word, Ratchet held him at bay.

That realisation was power too, of a sort that made his spark pulse in its chamber, filled his EM field with wavelengths of deep abyssal lust. Optimus’ field reacted in kind, layering over Ratchet’s with a possessive caress that surprised neither of them—but he remained still, taut, waiting for permission to move.

“Go on—move,” Ratchet croaked. He hooked his servos under the plating on Optimus’ shoulders, pulling the Prime down onto him. “Frag me.”

“As you wish,” Optimus rumbled.

A kiss, long and lingering, mouths opening to each other, the slide of their glossae sweet with promise. Ratchet found Optimus’ ventral panel by tactile examination, grinding his palm down over the cap in a flash of wicked revenge. Optimus gasped into the kiss, and Ratchet felt his lips curve into a smile as the opened up.

Exposed ports crackled with electricity, sharp and prickling against his fingertips. The tips of Optimus’ connectors slid from their housings into his servo. He cried out as Optimus’ digits pressed against his own ports, circling the plated rims and leaving a swathe of charge in their wake before he teased Ratchet’s own connectors out, and with unfair deftness guided them into his ports. Connection programs flagged Ratchet through, stalling for an odd moment before Optimus’ connectors plugged into Ratchet, completing the loop.

Sharing minds was natural, instinctual. They felt as one, interface protocols flooding the line between them with data. Ratchet groaned and arched up against Optimus, and felt the scrape of his own plating through Optimus’ tactile centers. Again he was struck with the size difference between them—he was so small, so comparatively delicate in Optimus arms. The current rose between them, lashing like a storm at the equilibrium in their sparks.

Optimus offered a memory program, and Ratchet’s protocols latched onto it with singleminded intensity. The world around them dissolved, the berth beneath them transforming to hard crystalline ground. Energy roiled around them, their fields enmeshed, sinking protoform-deep into each other’s frames. Metal scraped against metal, fingers darting into the gaps between, pulling at sensitive wiring. Ratchet was burning up inside, circuitry flaring magnesium-hot, engine roaring, his spark reaching out for Optimus. His plating fluffed out, opening himself up to skillful fingers. He rocked up against the massive frame above him, friction scoring heat that made him moan and shudder into his neural net.

And Optimus bore down on him, strong, solid, his presence enfolding Ratchet, connection programs weaving minds together. He reached out and Optimus mirrored the movement, one massive hand engulfing his.

Overload struck like a hammer, something sparking inside Optimus, lancing through their joined systems inside the tick of a nanoklik. It swamped Ratchet, sweeping through his circuit boards one by one. His optical feed flared and blacked out, life burning through him in ecstatic surges. He clung to Optimus with all for limbs, locking up around him and with his last conscious impulse shoving all that glorious sensation through the link as hard as he could push it.

He woke up several minutes later still connected to Optimus, the Prime’s thoughts chattering around him in gentle bliss. He blinked, and had to readjust his equilibrium—Optimus had flipped them, lying on his back with Ratchet spread out on his chest. The deep pervasive rumble of his engine washed through Ratchet’s neural net, a gentle lull that nevertheless spoke of the promise of more.

Optimus’ servo came to rest on his shoulder, and he counted the astrosecs until it was drawn away. There were quite a lot of them.

***


End file.
